As the two continued to banter, Beltur could finally feel that the order/chaos net was firmly set. Even so, he waited for a time longer before he finally released his hold on the pattern … and took a deep breath, then blotted his forehead.
Jorhan broke off whatever he was saying and looked to Beltur. “You finished there?”
“It’s set, but don’t hit the mold or move it for a while.” Those words weren’t really directed at the smith, but to the merchant.
“Do most mages work as hard as you do?” asked Barrynt.
“Not from what I’ve seen,” replied Jorhan before Beltur could reply. “Beltur works long days here and two days an eightday as a City Patrol mage.”
“Meldryn works long days, too. He’s up before I am.”
“Meldryn?” asked Barrynt quizzically.
“He’s both a black mage and a baker. I live in his house, and I pay for the lodging. His partner was one of the mages killed in fighting back the invasion.”
“I thought I told you that,” added Jorhan. “Beltur barely escaped from Gallos. His family was all killed, and he almost was. Athaal and Meldryn took him in while he was getting on his feet.”
“If Athaal hadn’t introduced me to Jorhan, I’d be in very poor shape.”
“So would I,” replied the smith dryly.
“You don’t have a consort?” asked Barrynt.
Beltur understood the question that hadn’t been asked. “I’ve been seeing a healer. She lives with her mother and her aunt. I’m hoping, once I save more silvers. But she and her mother are likely worse off than I am. They had to flee Gallos, too.”
Barrynt nodded. “No wonder you’re working so hard.”
“She’s worth working for,” replied Beltur with a smile.
“Just from your expression I can see that.”
“We’d best not spend any more time jawing,” said Jorhan, looking to Barrynt. “We’ll just delay you, and I don’t want Johlana blaming me if you get caught in a storm.”
“She’d never blame you,” replied Barrynt genially. “She’d tell me that it was my fault, and that I know better. But there’s little sense in tempting fate or the weather. I’ve got a case in the wagon, and some clean rags to pack up the cupridium. I’ll be right back.”
After Barrynt hurried out, Jorhan looked at Beltur and grinned. “You sly demon. You never said anything about a healer.”
“Ah … well, not many people know, and there’s an older black who’s trying to insist she consort him. She doesn’t want that, and I don’t, either.”
“You’ve got good reasons to work hard. She’d be a fool to choose another.”
“She doesn’t want that. Neither does her mother, but they don’t have much because they had to flee Gallos as well.”
“Coins don’t make a good match, but a good match gets stronger when you’re earning coins.”
At that moment, Barrynt returned with a wooden box that he carried straight to the rear workbench.
Jorhan looked to Beltur. “We’ll talk more about that later.” He moved to the workbench and helped Barrynt wrap and pack the cupridium pieces.
In a fraction of a glass, the candelabra and platters vanished into the box, and Barrynt stood by the smithy door. “Just remember, both of you, what I said.”
Beltur could sense the honesty behind the statement.
“I’ll walk you down to the wagon,” said Jorhan, heading toward the smithy door. “Add some coal to the forge, would you, Beltur?”
The door closed behind the two, and Beltur took the short shovel and carefully added coal to the fire, trying to replicate the pattern that Jorhan used.
The smith was shivering by the time he returned and stood in front of the forge. “Had to take two kegs to the house. Wine and ale. He’s a good man. Always brings a little extra. Couldn’t ask for a better consort for Johlana. He’d face the black angels for her … or for their children. I wouldn’t want to be the one who angered him that way.”
“I got the feeling from what he said about not changing terms.”
“He’s a man of his word. Always has been.” Jorhan paused, then looked directly at Beltur. “Hope you don’t mind my saying so, but there’s no perfect time to ask a woman to consort. Black angels, there’s no perfect time for anything.” The smith offered a grimace. “There can be a wrong time and a wrong way. I know that. Menara turned me down when I came calling fresh from the smithy. Said I needed to come clean. Never forgot that.”
“She didn’t turn you down outright, then?”
“No, but I got in the habit of washing a lot more.”
Beltur couldn’t help smiling.
“Best we get on with it,” said Jorhan, moving toward the forge. “We could cast and finish all winter, but once the roads close down, there won’t be many buyers.”
Beltur moved to the bellows.
The remainder of the day was spent casting daggers and an ornate vase, which Jorhan explained by saying, “We need to have a few different things for the outlanders.”
Right at fourth glass, after getting paid, Beltur hurried off because he wanted to get to the Council building before Raymandyl left for the day.
Even so, it appeared as though the clerk was tidying up prior to leaving when Beltur rushed through the door and toward his table desk. “You cut it close again, I see.” The dark-haired clerk offered a friendly smile.
“I’ve been working with Jorhan. We had to get some pieces ready for different traders.”
“You do seem to keep busy.”
“That’s what happens when you arrive in a new city copperless.”
“I doubt you’re that copperless now.” Raymandyl opened the pay ledger, made a notation, and turned the ledger so that Beltur could sign it. Then he set two silvers on the desk.
Beltur picked them up and slipped them into his wallet. “Not now, but I haven’t forgotten owing Athaal and Meldryn so much.” He then took out the two tokens, the ones he still felt slightly guilty about, and passed them to the clerk. “I’ve also got these.”
“I don’t see many of these once it snows.”
“I almost wish you didn’t see these.”
“Street folks stealing food?”
Beltur nodded. “I didn’t realize that was going to be a problem.”
“It’s been a problem for years. Likely always will be. There’s no easy way to deal with it.” Raymandyl took out the second ledger, opened it, made the entry, had Beltur sign, then applied his seal. After that, he handed over four more silvers. “There you are.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t spend them all in the same place. They’ll be harder to come by in the eightdays ahead.”
“I got that impression from Laevoyt.”
“He’s a good man. A good patroller as well.”
“Did you ever find out why your message to me didn’t get delivered on time?” Beltur grinned.
Raymandyl didn’t. “I never got a straight answer. One runner said he’d been told to give it to another. The first swore he gave it to the second. The second said he never got it. I don’t think either was telling the truth. That bothers me, but I can’t do much about it.”
It bothered Beltur as well, but he wasn’t about to say so. “Sometimes, those things happen. I’ll see you in another eightday.”
“Just keep warm.”
“I’ll do my best.” Beltur offered a pleasant smile, then turned and left the Council building, heading back to the house and bakery, with more silvers to put in the small iron strongbox he had bought after he’d recovered from his injuries.
IX
When Beltur set out for Patrol headquarters on threeday, he definitely needed his heavy coat, gloves, and scarf. While the green-blue sky was bright and clear, a north wind chilled any exposed skin. Despite the chill, when Beltur and Laevoyt reached the market square, there were already sellers there, including the woman selling acorn cakes and several others selling heavy woolen blankets and coats, and a
number of carts with potatoes and other root vegetables.
There weren’t any flashes of chaos, and not any sign of cutpurses or lightfingers. Fosset only had his cart there from ninth glass to second glass, but Beltur was more than glad for the hot cider by the time the city chimes rang out the first glass of the afternoon. Those who came to buy straggled in, most of them between ninth glass and third glass, although there were still a few buyers and sellers when Beltur and Laevoyt left the square and began their walk back to Patrol headquarters. In short, Beltur’s entire duty was uneventful and cold.
Fourday morning was only slightly warmer than threeday morning, but the walk to Jorhan’s was far longer than the walk to Patrol headquarters and the market square, and that meant that Beltur arrived at the smithy more than ready for the warmth of the forge. On fourday and on fiveday, Jorhan and Beltur worked long, so that Beltur didn’t get back to the bakery until almost sixth glass. Yet Jorhan was hard at work when Beltur arrived and continued forging, grinding, or polishing after Beltur departed.
When Beltur arrived at the smithy on sixday and took off his outerwear, Jorhan immediately said, “No casting today. I’ll need your help with the grinding and polishing wheels. The Lydian will be here between second and third glass. He won’t be traveling back to Elparta again until after the roads clear and the ice melts.”
“Sometime in spring?”
“The roads are seldom clear until the second or third eightday of spring.”
Beltur looked at Jorhan, seeing the dark circles under the smith’s bloodshot eyes. “How late did you work last night?”
“Until I couldn’t.”
Meaning that this is his last chance for a good sale for more than a season. Beltur walked toward the wheels. “Polishing or grinding?”
“Polishing.”
By a little after noon, the two finished the polishing and finish work, and Jorhan began to lay out the four straight-swords, a single sabre, two sets of candelabra, three daggers with simple leather sheaths, and two platters.
“Will he buy all of it?” asked Beltur.
“He asked for the straight-swords and sabre and one dagger and a set of candelabra. Even if that’s all he takes, we’ll be in much better shape.”
Left unsaid was the fact that, in all likelihood, Jorhan would be able to come up with Beltur’s back pay, even if the Council took longer to pay the smith.
Once Jorhan was satisfied, he turned to Beltur. “I have two molds for mirrors.”
“Who wants mirrors?”
“No one that I know, but the mirrors take less metal and require more artistry and finishing, and from here on until spring, we won’t likely get much more copper, and I’ll have more time than bronze.”
Beltur nodded. What the smith said made sense. It also suggested that Beltur’s earnings would decrease considerably in the next season and a half, especially after his City Patrol duty was over at the end of the second eightday of Winter.
He walked over to the forge, added coal in the way that Jorhan preferred, and then began to pump the bellows.
Almost two glasses later, after the two finished casting the second mirror, Beltur finally walked away from the cooling mold, having made certain that his order/chaos net was firmly set. He blotted his forehead and took a deep breath.
At the knock on the smithy door, Jorhan hurried forward and opened it. “Come in, Trader Harfyl.”
The trader stepped into the smithy. He was tall and slender, so wiry that he looked underfed, with watery blue eyes and a narrow pale face under white-blond hair. He wore a light brown coat with a matching cap and scarf, and dark brown leather gloves of the same color as his calf-high boots. Beltur didn’t sense anything unusual about his patterns of order or chaos.
Two men in bulky brown leather jackets followed the trader into the smithy. One carried a wooden box about three cubits long, and perhaps two wide. The other, empty-handed, closed the smithy door. Beltur immediately sensed something different about the sheathed swords worn by the guards, a darkness permeating the blades. Black iron?
“What do you have for me, Smith?”
At least that was what Beltur thought the trader said in his heavily accented voice, an accent he had heard once or twice, but had not realized was that of Lydiar.
“I’ve laid it all out on the workbench. What you ordered is there, along with several other pieces.”
“What I ordered is what I need.”
“All that is there,” replied Jorhan. “If you don’t care for the other pieces, then someone else will. I thought that you should have the first chance at them.”
“We shall see.” The trader followed the smith to the workbench.
The two guards remained just inside the smithy door, with the wooden box on the floor between them, its top firmly in place.
The Lydian looked over the workbench, then lifted the straight-sword closest to the end, examined it closely, then used it in a set of movements or exercises. When he finished with the movements, he took out a small disk and ran it over the blade, but the disk left no mark. He repeated the same process with each of the swords, the sabre, and the three daggers, and then studied the other pieces in much the same fashion before setting down the last platter and turning back to Jorhan. “I cannot believe you have amassed such a collection.”
“I didn’t amass it. We forged it.”
“Where is the mage?” asked the trader. “It takes a mage and a smith to forge cupridium.”
Jorhan looked puzzled for a moment. “What does that—”
“The mage? Where is he?”
“I’m right here,” declared Beltur.
“You? A mage?” The trader laughed. “A striker as a mage?” Before Beltur could say more, the trader gestured to the guards and said, “Seize him!”
Beltur immediately threw containments around both the trader and the guards, all of whom looked completely stunned to find themselves trapped.
“Beltur may not look it, but he was the arms-mage most powerful and effective in defeating the Gallosians,” said Jorhan, looking to the trader. “Is that enough proof of magery?”
The Lydian offered a wry smile. “It is indeed. That is even more surprising than coming across the largest assemblage of cupridium blades and other wares that anyone has seen in Candar in centuries. Who would have thought that a country smith and a ragged mage would have created such beauty?” He paused. “I had to know. If you will release me, I will pay you for all that is on the bench. Four golds for each sword, three for the sabre, two for each dagger, one for each candelabrum and platter.”
Beltur could not sense any swirls of chaos that suggested dishonesty or deception, nor anything like a shield … and, somehow, that bothered him.
“Four for the sabre and two for the large platter,” answered Jorhan.
“Agreed.”
Beltur released the trader, but not the guards.
The trader seemed not to notice that Beltur had not released his men. From somewhere under the coat, he produced a leather wallet from which he counted out the golds, thirty-five of them, laying the coins on the workbench. “The two extra golds are because I doubted you, and I wish that you would think kindly of me when I return in the spring.”
“I think we can manage that.” Jorhan took the golds and placed them in his own wallet, stepping away from the workbench and moving over beside Beltur.
Beltur enlarged his shields to include Jorhan and then released the two guards.
“Use the soft cloths in the box to wrap everything,” the trader directed the two, before turning back to face Jorhan and Beltur. “Are there other items you forge?”
“We’ve done a few hand mirrors.”
“Those would sell well if they are not too costly.”
“Three golds,” replied Jorhan. “The chasing and decorative work on the mirrors and the need for a perfect reflecting surface takes more time.”
“Three golds,” agreed the trader, “provided that each mirror is differe
nt.”
“We can do that.” The trader returned his attention to the guards and the wooden box they had carried over to the back workbench. “Use the padded strips to separate the blades and cover them with the old quilt.”
Once everything was in the box, one of the guards affixed two locks, and the two carried the box out of the smithy.
Only then did Trader Harfyl turn back to Jorhan. “I will see you in the spring, and I look forward to discovering what else you have created. Several blades would not be amiss.”
“We will look forward to your return.”
“Again, I will offer my apologies for doubting you, Smith, but I trust you understand just how surprised and concerned I was to see what you offered.”
“I understand your caution,” replied Jorhan.
“And to you, Mage, I also apologize. I realize that I am most fortunate that you are a black.”
“I accept your apology and wish you well on your journey.”
“Thank you.” Harfyl nodded politely, then turned and hurried out of the smithy.
Jorhan and Beltur followed as far as the door. From there they watched as three guards and Harfyl mounted their horses, and the fourth guard climbed up onto the seat of the small wagon, in which were loaded kegs, barrels, and bundles.
Once the four were out of sight, Jorhan closed the smithy door. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Do you think he thought you’d found the earlier blades you sold him?”
“He wasn’t sure. Part of it might be that.”
“So he would have stolen them if you’d found them, but he was willing to pay if we forged them?”
“If we’d found or stolen them, he saw no reason to pay us. If we forged them, then he wants as much as we can supply.”
“That doesn’t speak any more highly of the Lydian traders than those in Elparta,” said Beltur dryly.
“A trader is a trader. Most of them, anyway. There aren’t many like Barrynt.”
Beltur had definitely gained that impression. “Harfyl must be well-off. He just counted out thirty-five golds. There must have been fifty or a hundred in his wallet.”
“He had four guards that travel with him, and he rented the wagon and the horses.”
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